(Book One Complete!) Friendly Neighbourhood Goblin (Mercenary Company LitRPG)

The manor rose over the hill like a sunrise, or as near to one as you could find in the radius of Lumensa's decay.

"We're here," said Stump, spotting it first. He'd developed a hunch during the last hours of their journey from shouldering the adventurer's pack, but now straightened to gaze on Peaktree.

It stood twice as tall as any other farm they'd spied on the road and held the stone likeness of the buildings in Aubany. But it was cold and grey, unlit even under siege by sunset rolling clear across the land. Sectioned plots of soil sprouting vegetables and grain that looked nothing like the spore variety circled the estate like a patchwork quilt. And travelling over the fields were winking lumens, like the bright sentries of Wasptongue's beehives.

Stump's eyes sparkled. "Do you see that?" he breathed.

Morg either didn't hear or didn't care. "About time," he groaned, cracking his spine. Griza sank to her knees and scratched her nose against the rope.

Merra emerged from a patch of pumpkins, her lower half dark with soil, and her head crowned by a hat wide enough to sail for Seabrace in. A hesitant scowl gave way to a bright smile once she recognized them.

"Welcome," she said, beckoning them close. "We weren't sure you'd arrive tonight."

Stump mirrored her warmth. "We got delayed on the road by… what did you call them?"

"Highwaymen," said Morg. Reema's bags thudded at his feet. "I don't mean to press, but ye mind if we put our supplies down?"

Merra gave Griza quick consideration. Concern seemed to raise a protest in her mind, but she suppressed the thought. "Of course, you must be tired. Right this way," she said, and turned down the road.

Stump sped up to walk beside her. "Your farm is so much bigger than the others we passed on the way over. And the crops you grow… I haven't seen them anywhere else."

"My husband's work, mostly," she allowed. "My Farming skill is honed, but without the lights we wouldn't be able to grow proper sungrain like wheat and barley." She nodded vaguely ahead.

Stump brightened as they waded into the topic he hoped they would. "Is your husband home?" he asked excitedly.

She paused, and a sharp, diplomatic tone framed her next words. "He'll be back in the morning with The Iron Fleece. I'm afraid you'll have to fare with myself, my daughter, and my mother tonight."

"Oh, I meant… I'd like to speak to him at some point. If that's alright," he stammered, trying to undo the accidental insult. "I'm a Lumenurgist myself."

She cocked her head. "Truly?"

"Truly."

"Well…" she began, carefully forming what was beginning to sound like another strategic reply. "Tydas will have to see your skill for himself. If it's anything approaching the levels of Kestrel I'm sure a conversation can be had. Were you with the Amber Bastion?"

He shook his head. "I read a book, and I was trained a little by Wasptongue," he said. "Kestrel?"

"Our resident Solarmancer. My husband has him on retainer from the Amber Bastion."

"Your husband isn't the Solarmancer?"

"No, But he is very rich. He can buy them as he pleases," she said.

At first he thought the sharpness of her delivery was a prudent tactic, but the more she mentioned Tydas the more he registered the acid undertones. It seemed less that she was practiced in the art of navigating those who showed interest in him, and more that she would say as little as possible without warmth in the hope the conversation would be over soon.

"You can leave your things at the door. The servants will bring them to your quarters," she said as they neared the manor.

Peaktree was even grander up close, but no less cold. Each stone was larger than Stump's head—larger than Morg's, even—and hosted ropes of foliage along its walls. The oval door moaned at their entrance and breathed a wave of pine over an underbelly of firewood. Stump's eyes watered. It smelled like Shepherd's Hall.

"Quite the place ye got here," said Morg, ducking inside. He released his bags with great haste.

A gasp escaped Griza as she followed behind.

Wooden beams glowed orange under candlelight, spearing thirty or forty feet to the rafters. Fur rugs coated the floor. Gloomy evening pillars slanted through high windows, and a stone hearth crackled against a corner wall. Facing it was a creaking rocking chair occupied by a small, shrivelled old woman. She took a drag of a pipe and let the exhale disperse in wispy puffs.

"The hour is late," said Maven. "As are you."

Stump wrestled the adventurer's pack off his shoulders. "Apologies. As we explained to Merra—"

A small child burst through a set of doors at the other end of the room, pursued by a tottering old man in robes. She darted right, scurrying around a brass vase and towards an adjoining room.

"Don't break anything! Come back!" the old man cried, failing to grasp at the golden locks trailing behind her.

Merra's eye roll was nearly audible. "Again, Lyda?" She started forward, joining the chase. "You'll never access the system if you keep running away from your studies…" her voice trailed off into the next room.

Maven turned in her seat with mild interest. "You give them a good chase, dear!" she said, then took another puff and glanced at The Nobodies.

Her eyes bulged at the sight of Griza. "Ah! You've already apprehended one of them!" She vacated her chair with unexpected nimbleness, wielding her pipe like it was made for combat. "Into the flames with it!"

Griza snarled. "I dare you—" Morg flattened a hand over her mouth.

Stump slipped in front of her. "She's a prisoner. Well, not one of your prisoners. She tried to kill me."

Maven stood nearly straight without a cane. She cocked her head and indicated the hearth. "Then what are you waiting for?"

"No, I mean she's valuable. We need her."

"She's got information about 'em goblins attackin' yer plants, what he means to say," said Morg. Griza's protests melted into his glove.

Maven regarded her like a rodent caught in a trap. "Hmph. If you say so. But I'll not have her at the supper table."

Morg perked. "Supper?"

Stump's belly rumbled.

Griza's shouts became more frantic.

Stump, like Lyda, could barely see over the table.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

It filled a hall no less impressive than the foyer, and seemed to be built in anticipation of many distinguished guests. Together the five of them barely occupied the far end of it, leaving a dozen high-backed chairs empty, each one likely holding more value than the entire stockpile of furniture at the Knight Inn.

Maven snapped her fingers at an orc servant entering from the kitchens, carrying a covered tray. "Gorash, put your marvellous roasted seawing in the middle here, for the dwarf. And take away the pumpkin mash before my belly bursts," she said.

"No need, ma'am," Morg uttered, mouth full. "I'll finish it off for ye." He dragged the half eaten tray over with a greasy hand. The servant rested another in its place and conjured billowing steam at the removal of its covering.

A stuttered chuckle escaped the old matriarch. "I like a man with an appetite. Now, where were we?"

Stump linked his fingers over his full belly and watched the dwarf eat like he'd starved himself for days. "Goblins," Stump said, swallowing a flavourful burp.

"Of course," said Merra. Her fork stuck straight out of a partially eaten duck wing like a flag of surrender. "No raids over the last three nights, thankfully."

"And none after the Iron Fleece arrive, we can hope," Maven agreed.

Denna. Stump sat up at the thought of her. He wasn't happy how they'd left things after the meeting at Shepherd's Hall. He was angry and stormed out, and although she guided him back to the gates they'd hardly said a word to each other. It wasn't her fault Torrig turned out to be that way.

"If ye don't mind me askin'," Morg managed between spoonfuls. "How's it yer farm got so lucky? All the others we've passed looked like wooden corpses."

Merra replied in a manner similar to when Stump posed the question, sharp and political, but it was Maven's demeanour that drew his attention. Her scowl had deepened. Wisened. Wrinkles gathered around her lips. But after Merra caught Morg up on what Stump already knew, the old lady simply plucked an apple wedge into her mouth and remained conspicuously silent.

"Is Kessy going to join us for dinner?" came the little voice of Lyda. Stump had to nudge aside a basket of fruit to see her tugging her mother's shirt.

"Kestrel's busy with work tonight, dear," Merra said. "You can see him after dessert, if you'd like."

Lyda made a pleased sound.

"But only if you finish your studies."

Lyda made a sound of distress.

"And no whining about it. Your Farming skill is going to be very important when you come of age. If you study hard now you'll have a lot less grinding to do later."

The child's groan suggested the world was coming to an end. "But I want to learn Lummamurgy too!"

Merra's sigh was of a mother who was treading familiar ground. "At higher levels, maybe. But your focus points should go where your father and I say," she said in a tone that closed the matter.

Lyda pouted and fiddled with her fork in silence.

"Kestrel was hired to tend the farm?" Stump asked, hoping to draw Maven into the conversation.

"Hired for his help in farming, yes," Merra said before her mother could speak. "His grasp of sunlight increases the bounty of our harvests."

"Oh! Tell them what else he does!" Lyda piped up, shedding her sour mood like it was made of parchment.

Merra shushed her. "Now, dear, they're here on business. They're not interested in all that."

"But—"

A second hush.

"Do you think I'd be able to meet him?" Stump ventured nervously.

"Perhaps in time. He often works all day, sometimes through the night," Merra said, then stood abruptly and grabbed Lyda by the elbow. "Come, dear. If you get your studies done now you can see Kestrel before bed."

"But dess—"

"Now."

Mother and daughter cleared out of the room as quickly as the servants cleaned their section of the table. Once they were gone, the dining hall fell silent except for Morg's relentless feasting. Grumul would be proud.

"What else does Kestrel do?" Stump asked, unable to keep himself from exploring the avenue introduced by Lyda.

Maven gently dabbed a white cloth to her lips. "Whatever my son-in-law pays him for. Tydas' obsessions are as arbitrary as the weather and as changing as the seasons. His most persistent is his conviction that we are under threat of vampires."

Morg stopped eating, mouth half-full.

Stump recalled, as he imagined his friend did, the buzzing flies and shrivelled corpse on the road to the estate. Drained of its blood.

He breached the question he knew the dwarf was too afraid to ask. "Are you?"

Her features bunched up in a tangle of wrinkles. "No, no," she said. "He's been searching several years now and nothing's turned up. My daughter tires of his obsession, and it's all Tydas discusses. You can imagine what this does at the dinner table. Suffice to say tonight is a great relief," she added with a smile that made her look like she was sucking on something sour.

"You don't think he's right?" Stump asked.

"About vampires? Bah. There are none here. I've told him myself on a number of occasions to forget his little hunt," she said, then stared vacantly at an apple. "There are those around these parts who call him tyrant, and the clarity of that will come should you visit any of the nearby steads. Make of that what you will."

"Is it because he hired Kestrel?"

"It is. But why is it he alone has the glimmer to employ a Solarmancer?" Maven sighed heavilly, then stirred. "No matter to you, though. It's me you're working for, not Tydas. And unless the two of you are vampires in disguise you have nothing to worry about."

Stump shared a silent moment of camaraderie with his dwarven friend.

"Now if you'll excuse me," she said. Stump forgot how short she was until Maven slipped off the chair. "I'm rather tired. And the two of you have a greenhouse to watch."

Rain pattered outside. Rivulets streamed down the window.

Stump huddled next to a candle beneath it, taking comfort in the rhythmic tapping and the smell of damp soil wafting through. In his hands he held the pages of Thrung's tome, though the words refused to clarify themselves.

The bed groaned as Morg stood. He shuffled to the door, throwing Griza—who sat wedged between the corner and a bookcase—a threatening glare.

Stump glanced up from his study. "Where are you going?" he asked.

"To the greenhouse," said Morg. Stump started to rise, but the dwarf held up a hand. "I'll stand watch by meself."

"Are… are you sure? I can come with you."

"It's best we take shifts. But I think I'll take the night, if ye don't mind."

"The whole night?"

Morg gave a faraway nod. His fingers were already wrapped around the doorknob.

"Are you alright?" Stump asked.

The dwarf allowed himself a ponderous gaze at the floor. When he met Stump's eyes again, a calmness had descended. "I'm fine," he lied.

Stump reached for one of the Sending Stones. "Take this, at least. Let me know if anything goes wrong, or if you want to switch. Or talk."

Morg caught the toss, nodded stiffly, then clicked the door shut behind him.

Stump returned to his pages, finding his eyes scanning the same words over and over. Scattered mentions of Thermalurgy or Thermanus caught his attention, but they were invoked in passages of riddles, and the drawings were no less dense. They must've represented focuses or enhancements, but the corresponding descriptions gave no details about what they might do.

But there was one phrase he'd seen before that stood out on a second pass. "Solarmancy: surprisingly useful… Indoor grnhouse? Lumen + Therm more solid than I thot."

Peaktree's yields were far above any other farm in the area, Merra had told them. Stump's lumens wouldn't help their crops grow very much, but a Solarmancer's would. And a Solarmancer would know all about Thermalurgy.

"Heh," said Griza.

Stump peered over the page to see her slumped against the wall, watching him with a mocking smile. He ignored her.

"Always reading," she snarled.

This time he didn't look up. "I'm learning."

"Learning is doing. Fighting. Killing. But you wouldn't know anything about that."

It was the second time she'd mentioned his failure to take a life on a raid. Failure. Stump smirked. Even now his old tribal mind slipped through a little, allowing the tribe's measure of success to be his own.

"I've done plenty of doing," Stump said evenly. "I took these pages from Thrung, you know."

"Fire-Spitter," Griza hissed.

"You never call me Stump."

"You don't deserve a warname. You're a coward."

"But here I am, defending this place from our kind."

Griza nodded to him. "Is that what defending looks like?"

Stump swallowed his desire to fall further into argument. He wanted to win her to his side, not draw her ire. At least long enough to glean from her any knowledge she might have about Thrung.

He held the page higher, cutting off her dagger-like stare. "It is. I'm studying how to beat your king."

"Heh. You won't. You can't."

"You must know his weaknesses."

"He has none."

"Everyone does. I know he has focus points in Thermalurgy. He has to get his virtue from somewhere, doesn't he?"

Griza fell silent. When Stump looked at her again she had escaped his inquiry and was struggling meekly with the ropes. He set the page aside and approached, falling to his knees in front of her. She watched him with narrowed eyes, daring him to move closer. Instead, he pulled a folded napkin out of his pouch.

"Here, I promised you this, didn't I?" he said.

She looked down at the unfurling meal. A small chunk of pumpkin mash sat next to two apple wedges and a bit of roasted duck. "What's this?" she muttered.

"Dinner." He held it close enough for her to sniff. She recoiled, but hunger grumbled in her belly. "Sorry, I forgot," he said, then shifted closer. He grabbed one of the wedges and held it to her lips.

Suspicion kept her mouth closed.

"You haven't eaten all day," he urged.

It was a little strange observing the goblin wrestle desperately between states of hatred and confusion. "Why is he giving me food?" her eyes seemed to say. "Is it poisoned? Is it a trick?" She'd had the same look when he brought the hushcake to her bed earlier, but he knew even after that she would be starving.

She tentatively opened her mouth around the fruit. Juice trickled down her chin. "I'm not telling you anything about Fire-Spitter," she promised as she chewed.

Stump smiled. "That's alright. But a promise is a promise."

He held up another wedge, and she took it without hesitation.

Besides, there's a Solarmancer who might have the answers I'm looking for.